Page 87 of Irish Reign

“Go back to sleep,” I whisper, kissing his cheek.

He frowns for a moment, but then his breathing evens out.

Padding as quietly as I can, I retrieve the stack. While I’m at it, I pick up Braiden’s T-shirt from the floor. I slip it over my head when I get to the armchair beside the window. Sitting, I start to read by the light that comes in at the side of the curtain.

The documents are damning.

I’m looking at shipping records, detailed invoices of goods going in and out of Russo’s freeport gallery. There’s a list of names and numbers, the payments he extorted from local businesses. I find another list, the bribes he paid to city and state officials.

But that’s not all. When Braiden cleared off Russo’s desk, he grabbed everything. There are half a dozen envelopes at the bottom of the stack.

I open the first one, and I bite back a gasp of surprise. It’s filled with hundred-dollar bills.

There’s a name scrawled in the upper left corner of the envelope: Mauricio. I look at the others. They all have names too: Bruno, Dario, Aurelio.

But the last one doesn’t have a name. It’s the heaviest one of all. I slip open the flap, and there’s the money, wrapped inside a sheet of paper.

The page is covered by awkward printing, all caps. MIMI says the first line, and $1500. CIARAN $800. MIKEY $450.

This is the milk run. Braiden’s milk run.

But it isn’t. I’ve picked up something in the months I’ve spent working down the hall from Braiden. The amounts are too small, by at least a factor of ten.

And then I realize what I’m holding. Madden made the milk run. Madden paid his tithe. But he didn’t pay his Captain. He wasn’t working for the Fishtown Boys.

Madden paid his new boss. Madden paid Russo.

There’s one last page, at the bottom of the pile. It’s a partially completed tax return, as if Russo honestly believed I could assist him in declaring Madden’s milk run tithe as income. Or maybe, somehow, in some twisted way, as a business deduction.

Was that Russo’s intention? Was he finally ready to confide in me? To trust me as a lawyer?

Was he going to ask about Madden? About why his trained lap dog disappeared? Russo was never stupid. He had to suspect Braiden took out Madden, even if there was no proof.

Or maybe Russo only meant to taunt me. Show me one document in exchange for some perverted sexual favor, thenhide away the others. Show me everything, then lock away the documents and say they never existed.

I need to preserve all this evidence now. I know too well how accidents happen, how a fire might destroy everything. The federal government will never use this information to prosecute Russo, but every page here is a goldmine for Braiden.

We’ll make copies. Put some in the safe, here in the house. Put others in a bank vault. Secure them in Braiden’s gallery at Diamond Freeport.

But for now, until we can do something official, I can take pictures.

I dig my phone out of the pocket of the jeans I wore last night. It’s low on battery, but there’s enough to run the camera.

But first, I thumb open my texts, drawn by the bright red badge that says I have a new message.

Sonja

Let’s discuss.

She’s attached a document with a terrifying title: Final Order.

Catching my lower lip between my teeth, I tap the screen.

There’s a cover page: My name. The number of my proceeding. The date.

There’s a summary finding: The Committee on Professional Ethics has unanimously concluded that Samantha Mott is unfit to practice law. Her license is hereby revoked, and she is ordered not to practice law within the state of Delaware.

There are five pages of reasoning. Five pages to sum up my entire legal career. Five pages to honor Gianni and Giorgia and the nameless man on the mountain.

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